


Proprioception

by LydianNode



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief, Mourning, aftermath of Major Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:02:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27148429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydianNode/pseuds/LydianNode
Summary: Freddie is dead. The whole world should be in mourning."Can't we just have a bit of time together? There's no one else in the world who knows how we feel except the three of us. I don't want to waste it arguing, do you?"
Comments: 35
Kudos: 60





	Proprioception

**Author's Note:**

> This summer my best friend of over 30 years died a lingering, horrible death from glioblastoma. COVID kept me from even being in the same city, much less at her side in the hospital, to try and lessen her lonely suffering or—more selfishly—to say goodbye. This story is a way for me to process her loss. Needless to say the contents are entirely fictional.
> 
> For Kate.

24 November, 1991

London 

*** 

_(The entire world should be in mourning.)_

Brian's door is always hospitably open when guests are expected, but tonight it's locked, curtains drawn over the windows, lights dimmed. Roger rings the doorbell _—(why is my hand still shaking, for fuck's sake?)—_ and Anita pulls the curtain back. He waves at her, half-heartedly, as if she wouldn't recognize his face. Poor girl, she looks as wretched as Roger feels. 

Before he has time to take in one more breath of crisp autumnal air, Anita opens the door and gives him a kiss on the cheek. Her lips are dry but there's a hint of moisture on her face where tears have recently fallen. "Oh, Roger, I'm so grateful that you came. Sorry we're holed up like this, but there were reporters earlier..." 

Her face is pinched, no lustre in the green eyes that usually sparkle with mischief. In this moment of grief he's forgotten that Anita had known Freddie long before she met Brian. She has her own sorrow to bear along with her lover's: a double woe. Roger cannot fathom what strength it would take to carry not only her pain but also Brian's. 

He wraps his arms around her. She's tiny, so small and frail _(oh God, holding her reminds me of Freddie)_ and his throat is suddenly too narrow. "I'm so sorry," Roger gasps. 

Sadness is incongruous with the delicate bones of Anita's face. "I should be saying that to you." She steps back, still holding him by the wrists. "I was just on my way out. There's food—don't argue, I know you'll be drinking and you need to have something solid." Pulling back even further, so that only their fingertips touch, she adds, "I'll be just up the road with some friends. You can call me if...if he's...too much to handle..."

Roger tries to smile as he salutes her. "Message received, ma'am." Privately he resolves to deal with Brian himself, to give Anita the quiet and distance she will need to prepare for the rest of this dreadful ordeal. They don't exchange any more words. Anita slips out the door and Roger squares his shoulders before heading for the lounge. 

Brian nods a weary greeting from where he's slouching in the middle of the sofa. There's something in his hands that looks a bit like a bookmark, and Brian runs it between his fingers. Even that slight movement seems too much for him. He looks diminished, as if he's folded in on himself and can't straighten up. 

When Roger glances across the room in hopes of finding alcohol, he finds John instead. He's leaning against a bookshelf, holding a crystal tumbler filled with amber liquid. 

_I thought it would be just Brian and me for the first few minutes.  
I'm not sure who to go to first. Should I hug? Shake hands?  
_ _Hold on for dear life, the life Freddie doesn't have anymore.  
_ _I need a minute. I don't have a minute.  
_ _Why do they seem like strangers?_

"I didn't see your car," Roger babbles.

Shrugging, John holds his glass aloft. "Ronnie drove me. In case I..." From the ruddiness in his cheeks it's obvious that this isn't his first drink of the evening. "She's picking me up at midnight, like Cinderella." 

"Um. Yeah." Roger doesn't know what to say _(At a loss for words with Deacy and Brian?)_ so he meanders toward the bar and pours himself a scotch. No water. He doesn't want to dilute the drink that's meant to dilute his sorrow. The first sip burns. Good, at least he can feel something. 

He raises his glass at John, who mirrors the gesture. God, he looks sixty years old: gone grey at the temples, craquelure around his mirthless eyes. Brian, ashen and despondent, watches them in silence. 

The last few years have taken so much out of them all. Fear, worry, outright lying ( _to the press? to ourselves?),_ all the while knowing that they were watching the sand run out of Freddie's hourglass. These years have stretched them so thin that they'll surely tear themselves apart. 

When he clears his throat and begins to speak, Roger can scarcely recognise his own voice _. (How he'd screamed to the cruel heavens moments after getting the phone call from Peter, alone in his car, wanting Freddie back, wanting Brian and John.)_ "Anita said we should eat something. Since we're probably going to get blackout drunk. Or at least I am." 

The mention of his lover's name makes Brian sit up a little. He blinks a few times, the way he does when he's called back to reality instead of wherever he goes inside of his own head. "She made...it's on the table..." He waves vaguely at some plates with little nibbly things on them. "She said we needed something besides booze. She said...she said she needed something to do with her hands."

"Of course she did; we all do," John murmurs. He sounds as if he's soothing a child. "It'd be best to eat a bit, don't you think?" 

Normally, Brian would bridle at the merest hint of condescension, but this is not a normal situation. _(Nothing will ever be normal again, not really.)_ Tonight he just reaches for a little plate and puts a few crackers on it. When John keeps looking at him, one eyebrow arched, Brian adds a bit of cheese and a biscuit. 

Getting him to eat will be another matter. Just like it was with Freddie. _(Damn, here come the tears again.)_ Glad of the chance to hide his face, Roger takes too long picking out tidbits for his own plate until he can collect himself. No sooner does he think that he's managed it than John meets his eyes with a quirk of an understanding half-smile. 

Roger looks from John to Brian, who raises his shaggy head and pats the spaces on either side of him. Roger goes to him at once, glad of the feel of Brian at his left hand. John joins them. There's still plenty of room, but it feels worse instead of better. _(I'd rather be cramped and have Freddie's elbows in my ribs.)_

John places his food and drink carefully on the little table. "What's that?" he asks, pointing to the strip of fabric in Brian's hand. 

"This?" He holds it up. Not a bookmark after all but a blue hair ribbon. "Chrissy brought the kids by so that they'd hear...it...from me. Louisa left this behind." Brian worries the ribbon between thumb and finger. There's a strand of honey-coloured hair clinging to one edge.

"How'd they take the news?" John asks, not unkindly.

Brian's little shrug speaks volumes. "Emily's too young to understand and Louisa seemed more upset by how upset I sounded. Jimmy took it hard, although he tried his best not to let on. He and Freddie got on so well..." He drifts off, eyes and voice unfocused, then snaps back as if remembering that he's the host of this melancholy little reunion. "What about your kids, Deacy?"

"I, uh..." He takes a long swig of booze, his Adam's apple working up and down. "Ronnie took care of that. I wasn't in...the best of shape." 

"Sorry," Brian says with a little pat on John's shoulder. 

_(Not the best of shape? How d'you think I felt?)_

When the two of them look at Roger, he exhales and reaches into his jumper to rub at his collarbone. "I phoned Dom and went to see them. Rory...well, she reverted to French the way she does when she's upset. 'Est-il mort, papa?' she asked me, and then Felix started to cry." Someone tugs his wrist—Brian—and pulls his hand out, holding it firmly. 

"I'm so sorry you heard the way you did." Brian's voice is profound in its gentleness. "It must've been awful." 

Roger uses a grab for his drink as an excuse to free his hand. "Yeah. I'm gonna hear those words in my nightmares for a while." He doesn't restrain himself from downing the rest of his scotch in a single gulp. "I can hear them now. 'Don't bother coming—he's just gone.' Christ." 

He can feel the weight of John's sympathetic gaze. "I can't imagine," he states, bluntly as ever.

"God, Roger," begins Brian, but Roger stands up. His balance is off, tipping him slightly to one side until Brian steadies him. _(Like Freddie used to do.)_

"Fuck it, I need noise." Roger reaches for the remote and switches on the television. Adverts for shit no one really needs, trailers for shows no one really watches. Then a newsreader comes on, and over his shoulder is a photo of Freddie in full Harlequin costume, bent back _(so far, he could bend so far and still sing)_ with a microphone to his lips.

"Singer Freddie Mercury of Queen died today at his London home. He was forty-three years old." 

"Fucking wankers," mutters John. "They could at least TRY to get it right." 

Wind knocked out of him as if by a physical blow, Roger reaches out as if he could touch Freddie's arm even as he drops back onto the sofa. 

The newsreader continues. Roger can't bear to listen, the words bouncing around him but not really penetrating. 

"Flamboyant lifestyle."  
"Homosexual liasons."  
"Outlandish expenditures."  
"Promiscuity..." 

Brian doesn't bother with the remote. He springs off of the sofa and slaps the power button on the television as if it were the face of the smug bastard newsreader. 

They just stare at one another for long seconds. 

"Fuck." John. "It's...it's real. I mean, I knew it was, but..." He slides into the spot that Brian just vacated and leans against Roger. It's the first time they've touched tonight. First time they've even seen one another in weeks. Perhaps months. Time isn't a construct Roger particularly enjoys.

 _(If I’d known that would be the last time I’d see him, I’d have…)_

Brian is staring at the palm of his hand. Violence has never suited him, always astonishing him when it happens. Even when it's just a television. 

"You okay?" Roger asks. It's a stupid question, hanging heavily in the air, and Roger puts his hand over his mouth. "Sorry," he mumbles against his fingers. 

"It's fine." Brian squeezes himself next to John on the sofa. "Jim Beach asked me that when he called to check up. He told me something else but I don't know what to make of it. I wanted to run it by the two of you." He takes a deep breath. "Of course he called to check up on me, but also he wanted to tell me something Freddie told him a few days ago. About the album."

"Innuendo?" Roger asks. 

"No, mine. Freddie said I'd be, and I quote, 'an idiot' if I didn't take...advantage of the publicity. It just..." 

"Hmm." John's voice is neutral. "He's got a point."

_(HAD a point.)_

"But that's wrong, isn't it? I mean, to do that when he's not even..." Brian tugs on a curl that's hanging near his jaw. "It feels...ghoulish." 

Half of Roger agrees with Jim, but the other half wishes Brian would throw all the tapes into the fire: a sacrifice, a suttee. _(They're going to burn him, oh my God...)_ He says, as casually as he can, "He supported all our projects. He was the first one to listen to 'Fun in Space,' if memory serves, and he couldn't have been more delighted for me." 

"Besides," adds John, "your single's already out. How long would you delay the album - six months? A year?" 

"I don't know." Brian leans forward again, hands folded in his lap. "I don't know what to do. I can't think straight right now, can you?"

John and Roger shake their heads in unison. "Take your time, Bri," Roger says. "I don't know what I'd do if I were in your position, so give yourself a chance to sort it out. We'll back you up, whatever you decide." 

John doesn't say anything for a moment, just breathes deeply and stretches his legs out in front of himself. He pats Brian on the arm. _(Freddie would've hugged him. Should I hug him?)_

"Which brings me to the elephant in the room: what the three of us do next," John says rapidly, as if needing to get it over with.

"Next?" Roger's question comes out more sharply than he'd intended. "Mate, it's all I can manage to deal with what's happening right now!" 

"I think I understand," Brian puts in, quickly, as if the sudden tension in the room could be dissipated with a little bit of diplomacy. "We need to sort out what we want to say so we don't get caught flat-footed, McCartney style."

Roger winces. Paul had been cornered in the moment of his deepest shock and grief, and his words had damned him in the eyes of the public. "Good idea. I mean, something like 'it's a drag' would be the worst choice we could make." 

"We have to put out a statement to the fan club," John declares. "And whatever statements we make individually should all have a similar theme. We have to project unity—"

"Theme? Are you daft?" Roger can't believe what he just heard. Fuck diplomacy, fuck it all. "What do you mean, 'project?' Aren't we actually unified? Can't we just say that AIDS is a horrible thing and we are miserable at losing our friend to it?" 

"Of course that's what John means." Brian is not naturally gifted in mediation but he's clearly trying his best. _(That was always Freddie and, oh GOD, he's gone...)_ "The fucking press is going to try and make this look like some sort of divine retribution, and we're going to foil them. Right, John? Rog?" 

"Of course. Sorry, Roger." John's affect is stiff. Uneasy. There's something he's not saying, but Roger can't work it out and Brian doesn't even seem to be trying. 

Instead, Brian wanders over to the bar and returns with a cold bottle of Stoli. He fills each of their glasses—thank fuck they were empty—and raises his own in a toast. "To Freddie. Safe travels, my friend." 

Roger clinks glasses with the others, his eyes misting over as he's nearly consumed by the empty space where Freddie should be. _(There should be a fourth glass, a fourth person snuggled up with them on the sofa, a fourth heart beating.)_

He can hear John's quiet words. "Godspeed, Freddie. We'll always miss you." 

They're looking at him. At Roger, Freddie's oldest friend from before they were even in a band together, back in the old shared-flat days when their Christmas dinner was the sauce for a bread pudding they couldn't afford to make. He has to say something. They're waiting for him. 

"Freddie, I—" He doesn't get any further. The glass feels impossibly heavy in his trembling hand. _(Everything is heavy, so fucking heavy, without Freddie to lighten the load.)_

"Here." John takes Roger's drink, drains it, and puts it on the coffee table. Brian, meanwhile, settles down next to Roger and awkwardly pets his hair. 

It's not as comforting as the way Freddie did it. _(Freddie's touch—a pencil, a piano, someone's hair—was magical.)_ But Roger can sense the kindness in Brian's unsteady caress and he leans into it. "Sorry. I just got a bit overwhelmed, is all." 

"Nothing to be ashamed about," Brian assures him. "I've had more than one good cry since I heard. A few more drinks and there may well be another." 

Roger straightens up and examines Brian's face. His eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, and there's a place on his lip that looks as if he's been biting it. Even his hair looks depressed, curls hanging lank with silver threads in the deep brown. 

"You're going grey again, Bri," Roger says, and Brian lets out an annoyed huff in response. "Remember when Freddie suggested henna to cover it up with highlights?"

John's chuckle is a relief. "That shit was all over your costumes for weeks. I thought Phoebe was going to strangle the pair of you." He winks at Roger. "Then there was the time your hair went green..." 

Roger can't help himself, can't stop the bubble of laughter that rises from his chest. Hysteria, that's what they'd call it if he were a woman _(or if he were Freddie at his most frenetic)_ and he steels himself for the tears that will inevitably follow. 

He nudges Brian with his elbow to disentangle himself and forces his body to sit up straight. Perhaps now they'll trade stories about their lost friend, each trying to top the other with some outrageous memory. _("I'm calling you the chaos twins," Brian had scolded after a particularly rowdy escapade.)_

John shifts forward on the sofa. "I hate to bring this up, but what do we know about the music rights?" 

Cold water could not have been more shocking. 

"Deacy, maybe this isn't the time," Brian begins, shaking his head. "We shared everything equally, and that shouldn't change now that...I mean, I assume that he's taking care—took care..." He trails off, running both hands through his disheveled hair. "God, he's really GONE." 

_(Freddie Mercury in the past tense is unthinkable.)_

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything." John sinks in on himself, looking down at the floor. "I'm not good at this. At grieving," he adds after a long pause. 

"You're better with numbers than people. Always have been," Roger says. It's a matter-of-fact statement without judgement. Perhaps a little bit of judgement. He doesn't look up, even though the devil on his shoulder wants to see the look of pain on John's face. 

"It's not just about money!" John's retort rings through the room. "We have tapes, and concert footage, and we're going to need to decide the best way to memorialise him."

"Rog. John. Let's wait a few weeks, shall we? Can't we just have a bit of time together? There's no one else in the world who knows how we feel except the three of us. I don't want to waste it arguing, do you?" 

"I wouldn't mind," grouses Roger, thinking better of it when John goes stiff next to him. _(Freddie would hate this, would look at him with sad eyes, would do anything to defuse the situation.)_ "Sorry," he amends. "I think it's the shock wearing off." 

The sour friction in the room is broken by the chime of the doorbell. Roger glances at his watch: midnight. Veronica ex machina, saving Deacy from...them? Himself? The ghosts in his eyes?

Brian lopes to the door and throws it open. "Ronnie."

"Oh, Brian, I just don't know what to say." She's not a woman of many words, John's wife, but there's a calm steadiness about her that seems to warm Brian as he leans over to embrace her. "Jim Beach phoned a while ago. I asked him to let you be until tomorrow. You look as if you could use the quiet." She turns to Roger and offers a hug and a kiss. 

_(At the wedding she'd hugged Roger and Freddie and Brian all at once, had called them her "new brothers" and Freddie had shrieked with delight.)_

When John walks up, head still bowed, he takes his wife's hand in his and squeezes. After a breath, he looks up. "I'm so sorry, guys. I'm sorry." 

Roger can't quite meet his eyes, but Brian does. He places his hands on John's shoulders. "Get some rest, Deacy. We're all knackered; we'll talk more tomorrow." He follows them into the driveway, leaving Roger to go back to the lounge. 

It's cold. _(Many a freezing night on a tour bus to God knows where, Freddie had chafed Roger's fingers between his palms.)_ Roger walks away from the door and kneels by the hearth. "Does this fireplace actually work or is it decorative?" he calls over his shoulder. 

"I'll do it, wait a moment!" Brian returns breathlessly, as if he'd been running all the way back. Crouching next to Roger, he arranges the wood just so and supervises the nascent flames until he's satisfied. He carefully replaces the fire screen so that no stray ember will escape. 

They'll be warm and safe. 

_(And alone.)_

"There. Can't have you burning the place down like you did in the kitchen back in the day." 

Roger rolls his eyes. "You're never going to let that go, are you?" 

"Nope." Brian smiles at him, light finally appearing in his eyes. "The sight of you and Freddie...the way he bristled and said 'Well, darling, how was I supposed to know that you need WATER to cook spaghetti?'"

"My cooking's improved since then," argues Roger. He's grinning—although it feels strange and tight and unnatural—at Brian's arch mimicry of Freddie's outrage. "A bit."

"Mmm." Brian's knees pop when he rises. He holds out a hand to Roger. "C'mon, old man, let's have another drink." 

Roger won't say no to that. He and Brian sit side by side on the sofa and Roger pours them both several fingers of Stoli. They touch glasses in silence. No need to say the name that's in their hearts. 

Brian is staring into the fire. Whether he's lost in thought or simply zoned out, Roger can't tell. He takes another sip _(Cheers, darling!)_ and leans back, resting his head on an overstuffed cushion. "What the fuck's going on with Deacy?" 

"What the fuck's going on with all of us, Rog?" Brian's words have no bite to them. He peers over at Roger. "He said he came early to 'talk to me about something' but he just stood there drinking and looking gloomy. I can't really fault him for that, since that's pretty much all I've been doing." He takes a sip of his drink, then adds, “I can’t imagine him coming over to unburden himself to me, of all people.” 

"Huh.” Neither can Roger. “Well, trying to see past John's mask of inscrutability was always Freddie's thing."

"True. I've never been very good at translating Deacy-to-English."

Roger snickers. The downward turn of Brian's mouth makes him solemn again and he asks, "What do you suppose is going on at Garden Lodge?"

"I haven't a clue. Cleaning up, I suppose, and checking on details for the service on Wednesday." 

_(Phoebe washing the sheets, rinsing away the last scent of Freddie as the cats wind around his ankles, bewildered and lonely...)_

"Bri, do you think we should go over?"

"What, tomorrow?"

"No, tonight, the two of us?" 

Brian shakes his head. "And do what, exactly?"

"I just..." It hurts to talk, hurts to swallow, hurts to think. "I was just so bloody close, I could see the house. And then the phone—"

"Roger, don't do this to yourself," pleads Brian. 

"Just a few minutes earlier, I could've BEEN there!" The floodgates are open now and Roger lets the currents sweep him away. "I could've been holding his hand, I could've told him how much we love him, but I was too fucking LATE!"

"He knew how much we loved him. I'm sure of it." Brian places a reassuring arm around Roger's shoulders.

Shuddering, crying, leaning against Brian's side because he can't hold himself up any longer, Roger can't stop the torrent of words. "They took him away and now he's all alone, and he's cold, and you KNOW how much he hated the cold, couldn't stand it!"

Brian's face is stricken and pale. "Rog..."

"He's all alone in there, no one's holding him. Someone should be holding him! _(Freddie always fit so perfectly beneath one arm.)_ And now they're going to fucking BURN him until there's nothing LEFT and...and..." He collapses in Brian's embrace. 

"Ssh, it's okay, it's okay," Brian soothes. "He wasn't alone; he was with Jim. He was with the man he loved." 

"God, JIM. I can't..." Roger sniffs and sits up a bit. Christ, he's probably a mess, all tears and snot everywhere, but Brian just smiles sympathetically at him. "Here I am, blubbing like a baby, and Jim's lost the love of his life. What right do I have—" 

"Just listen," interrupts Brian, lifting one hand as if to put it over Roger's mouth but not quite touching him. "You have every right. Grief isn't zero-sum. We all loved Freddie, and we'll all mourn him, and God knows I'll miss him every fucking day..." Brian's voice breaks and he has to swallow before he can finish. "I'll miss him for the rest of my life." 

"Me too," breathes Roger. He pats Brian's forearm. "Remember the first time you and John got into it during rehearsal?" Brian just groans in response. "And you stormed out and slammed the door? Deacy was calling you every name in the book but Freddie stopped him cold. Said that you might well be an infuriating, stubborn bastard but that no one in the world has such a tender heart." Roger drops his gaze, unable to bear the tears forming in Brian's eyes. "I forget that about you, sometimes." 

“Remember when Jim called you Freddie’s soulmate? It’s true. The two of you were so close. I was…” Brian hesitates. “I may have been...a bit jealous. I know it sounds ridiculous, but...” 

“Brian. C’mon. He fucking adores—adored— _(fuck, it’s that past tense thing again)_ you. ‘All that talent AND a huge cock? It’s bloody unfair!’” Roger’s imitation is spot on and Brian finally relaxes a little. “But seriously, he thought you hung the moon just for him.” 

Roger feels Brian’s arms close around him, holding tightly for a second before releasing him. “Thanks, Rog. I really did need to hear that. I just feel like something’s missing, you know?” 

_(I’m missing half of my soul, is that what you mean?)_

“God. Yes. Like I’ll tip over, or I don’t know where anything is anymore. Where I am, even.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. _(There you go, Freddie, it’s gonna be okay, it’s just another concert.)_ “D’you think there’s a heaven?”

Brian’s face twists the way it always does when he’s faced with a question that can’t be answered logically. One side of his mouth goes up, exposing the canine he was always so self-conscious about _(Really, darling, have you SEEN my mouth?),_ and he frowns for a moment. “You mean fluffy clouds and harps? No. But there may well be...I don’t know, something else. Out there.” Those intelligent eyes are focused on Roger now, as if he’s part of that space dust Brian aches to understand. “You?” 

“I’m not what you’d call religious. I mean, everyone knows that about me. But maybe some power in the universe, God or Nature or whatever...might remember us.”

 _(If you're out there, and Freddie's afraid, please take care of him.)_

"That's lovely," whispers Brian. "Can I tell you something?" Roger nods, watching intently as Brian continues. "I was writing last night, working on a song Cozy and I started a while back. 'I look at your picture, I'm nothin' but blue,' that one. I was playing through it this afternoon, and I think I felt...something. Not a breeze, exactly, just a little...sensation. Like a hand on my cheek?" 

"Wow. That's...heavy." 

_(Please, Freddie? Could you brush past me just once?)_

"Do you think it could mean anything?"

God, he's in earnest. Roger smiles at him. "It means that you're exhausted and ought to get to sleep." 

"Not tired. Too antsy." Brian's fingers are never still, always playing or writing or drawing complicated patterns in the air. "I can play you the song, if you want to hear it."

"I can't." The words fall from his lips so swiftly that he can't believe he uttered them. "Not just you. I mean, I don't think I can listen to any music. For a while."

"That's understandable," Brian assures him in exactly the tone of voice that displays his pain.

"I'm sorry, Bri. I really am. I just..."

"It was a silly idea." 

"Brian." Roger puts his hands on Brian's forearms, holding firmly. "I'm sure I'm gonna love it. Just give me some time. I need to find out where I fit in a world that doesn’t have Freddie in it. You understand that, don't you?" 

"Of course." Brian's face loses the sorrowful tension as he grins lopsidedly. "Hey, would you like to crash here tonight?"

"I thought you'd never ask." 

"Do you need to call Debbie?" 

"Nah. I told her I'd only call if I did decide to come home. I love her like mad, Brian, and she's trying so hard to help, but she doesn't GET it. Not the way you do."

"You mean, feeling lost?" 

Roger nods. "So lost." He unties his shoes and toes them off, then curls up on the sofa. "Got a blanket?"

"We do have a guest room, Rog. Three of them, in fact."

Roger usually enjoys the look of mock irritation that Brian does so well, but tonight there's a yearning in his eyes that goes straight to Roger's heart. He knows. He knows. 

"I'd rather be here." He wriggles until the back of the sofa is planted firmly against him. "Something up against me."

 _(Freddie used to curl up next to me on the bus.)_

Brian yanks a chenille throw off of a nearby chair and brings it over to Roger, tucking him in with fatherly care. He rests his palm on Roger's forehead. "You gonna be all right?"

"No." It's a forthright answer, the only one Roger can give. He looks blearily up at Brian's mournful face. He's on his second loss of the year, the poor bloke, and it shows in the lines around his mouth. "God, it's so hard. Does it get any easier?" 

After mulling the question over for a moment first, Brian answers softly. "It gets...different. You learn to fill the empty places, bit by bit. But sometimes you'll want to call because you just heard a great joke, or there's a new restaurant he should try, or you'll pass a shop window with a Japanese screen, and you'll feel it all over again. Then, one day, it'll make you smile when you remember him."

"Does it take a long time? 'Cause I'm not good at waiting." 

_(Hurry up, darling, don't lag behind!)_

Brian strokes his hair, smiling fondly down on him. "That is definitely true. Also true: I’m bad at it, as well, but I'll still wait along with you."

God, how he loves this impossible man. 

Brian gets up, stretching his long limbs. He doesn't leave the room, instead walking over to the desk and taking out paper and pencil. "What're you doing?" Roger asks, surprised that Brian's not headed for the comfort of his own bed. 

"Drafting a letter for the fan club. Get some sleep, Rog."

"What about you? You already look like you haven't slept for a week." 

"In a while. Close your eyes, there's a good lad." 

Roger flips him off and nestles against the cushions. His eyes are heavy, his body exhausted. The familiar scratching of Brian's pencil is a soothing background noise. Soon he's so sleepy, so ready to cast off his pain, that a subtle change in the air around him lulls him into dreams of better days, of laughter and music and wholeness.

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to @royaltyisshe64 and @freddieofhearts for beta reading, britpicking, and hand-holding.


End file.
